Bloody carnations, stamped down flat into sizzling concrete;
The smell of their demise is sickly sweet.
It's caught in my lungs, filling them up as though
All the air I now breathe is just tar--
The bitter blackness makes me choke and sputter,
As if I never knew the clarity of oxygen in the first place.
Ravenous red mist shrouds my vision, and as you pirouette
Away from me, your bright, brilliant hair, it billows out so, so,
So, nicely behind you; a beautiful train of solar flares
Char and mar whatever it passes.
I claw your shoulder blades to shreds, dig my nails in--
Deep.

We both know that carnations are better than what we deserve, anyway.